To my darling (and few) followers,
LankyJayne now has an official Twitter account!
Pretty empty right now, but I’ll be updating daily with quotes or posts or images and general things I think are groovy.
Follow if you tweet!
P.S. Tonight I will be updating and re-vamping Lanky Jayne, so if there’s any fuck-ups (which I’m sure there will be – internet illiterate) then I’m sorry. Also apologies for any emails you receive about a new post and there isn’t anything there etc.
I hate clubs. Without a doubt every dirty club I’ve managed to stumble in has been overflowing with the following elements: that drunk girl sobbing her heart out on the pavement outside because he-didn’t-call-me-and-why-doesn’t-he-love-me-and-am-I-pretty? Before then throwing up onto her “friend’s” shoes who’s desperately trying to calm her down while secretly hoping he’s going to get a gobby that night. I then proceed to walk in and am bumped into by sweaty sixteen-year-old boys in basketball v-neck t-shirts, who apologise for spilling their slush-bucket-mohito drink down my dress. As I squeeze my way through the smoky dance-floor (smoky due to the tacky fog-machine and the collective stale breath of screaming eighteen-year-olds) I’m stabbed repeatedly in the feet by the torturous stilettos of a thousand booty-shaking girls. Until, finally I’ve arrived at the side stage where I’m able to stand relatively peacefully until a line of pissed blokes try to determine whether I’m a guy or not before shamelessly hitting on me.
And that’s just at Villa. After waiting a solid twenty minutes to order my vodka and tonic, I finally get to relax a little and watch a handful of genuinely trendy teenagers make some seriously beautiful music. Snakadaktal are a five-piece indie-pop band from Melbourne who were made famous by that one song played on Triple J incessantly. Last year, they won the Unearthed High competition and have since recorded an EP, made some groovy YouTube videos and have this year been touring around Australia pleasing peoples eardrums with their delightful tunes. Like 99 per cent of the crowd I had rocked up to the gig knowing only that one song , and was pleasantly surprised when they began the set with dancey-pop tunes and very mature harmonies. I noticed among the skinny, flannel-clad hipsters with who were stealthily stealing drinks (standard club move; we’ve all been there) that everyone was happily bobbing their heads along to the droning beat of synthesised pop which sounded very familiar to Foals last album.
The band themselves were having a great time dancing bare-footed and glittered on stage producing song after song of tight, well-written material. As always the drummer was having the most fun bashing awkwardly away at the drums which seemed too small for him, reminding me of the gawky boys in high school who’d shot up in year eleven and hadn’t quite gotten used to their long arms and tall frames. The crowd woo-hoo’d and yippee’d when the band finally played Air – their song made famous on Triple J, and the band clearly loved the feel of a roomful of people singing along in jumbled unison to their lyrics. At every pause and new song I was honestly surprised at how grown-up and professional these kids were, every song being perfect to the tee and producing sounds that I can confidently say I did not hate. Despite my sarcasm and genuine contempt for everything, I can’t stress enough how good this band was. You can find their delicious tunes on the Unearthed website or good ol’ fashioned Myspace.
At 1am Sydney DJ Alison Wonderland boogied her way onto the stage in her six-inch, killer heals, and immediately started producing some funky beats interspersed with the odd Daft Punk chorus and Beastie Boys tune. Despite her freakish energy, I was in no way feeling up to sticking around for another 2 hours to watch the set, but I’m guessing it was much of a muchness. My friend and I walked home after stopping off in a dirty Maccas with our ears ringing, our dresses sticky with alco-pops and the satisfaction of a good night.
Masturbation. I do it. You do it. We all do it. If you say that you don’t then you’re probably lying. If you genuinely don’t then I seriously wonder how you function in normal society, because that’s all it really is; it’s a normal thing that women dare not speak about. It’s accepted that men wank prolifically, sometimes even twice (or more) a day, but the sheer thought of women indulging in such a decadent practise is simply unheard of. We don’t even have a decent list of common slang used to describe the pleasure; women certainly don’t do the five-knuckle shuffle, we don’t crown the king, flog the log, slap the salami nor do we beat the stick. An inventory of terminology from craigslist.org shows that women sometimes partake in fanning the fur or nulling the void, or we can get a stinky pinky by buffing the weasel, polishing the pearl, or my personal favourite: Genital Stimulation via Phalangetic Motion – how erotic.
Let me set the record straight: women masturbate. Your tutors, your sisters and even your mum – they all do it. So why do we seem to find it so wrong and uncomfortable to talk about? My group of friends and I only ever really talk about it after a bottle or two of vino, and even then they seem aghast that I – a 21-year-old female – do not own a vibrator. There are two reasons for this: the first is that I’m poor (note: student) and the second is my irrational fear that my parents are going to find it while looking for something in my room. Even worse though, what if they hear it? What if – somehow – they hear the vibrations through the walls of my vagina then through the cemented barriers of the ceiling above my bedroom? The sheer thought is wholly terrifying. My irrationality does not, of course, stop me from doing it all together: I, like most other women in their twenties masturbate, but not as frequently or vigorously as men seem to do. Continue reading